In the shadowed porch where Uncle Viv sits, He chuckles soft with a sly, knowing grin, Spin quiet jokes that slip, like whispered wits, In tales and tunes of where the heart has been. With country music humming through the trees, A dependable rhythm, a steady hand, His stories light like leaves upon the breeze, Both funny and profound, like well-sown land. Though quiet and unassuming he may seem, His laughter's the pulse of a warm sunbeam.